


Call of the Necromancer

by TheGoddessWater (GreyJedi)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adventures of Sir James, Fantasy, Gen, Grave robbing...In a very literal sense, Necromancy, Revanants, Rituals, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 17:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyJedi/pseuds/TheGoddessWater
Summary: It's a clear, moonlight night when a lone figure, armed with staff and tome, finds a freshly dug grave at which to work.





	Call of the Necromancer

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of a portfolio for university and brought over from my old deviantart account, I'm thrilled to present this slightly-creepy short story about the necromancer from the world of Sir James.

The waxing moon shone bright upon the ground, casting the world in a diffuse blue-white glow. Lines of stone markers stood in the clearing, some so weathered that the words could no longer be made out upon their surfaces. Long shadows stretched over the ground from the rows of headstones, reaching across graves, both new and old. The scene might have been beautiful, had the lone, cloaked figure in the darkness not seen fit to grace it with his presence. With both hands he gripped a long staff of black elder carved with stiff, runic figures. At his belt was a thick, leather-bound tome, its cover a whorl of twisted forms and snarled symbols. The tools of a necromancer.

All was silent and still around him, not a breeze to ruffle his heavy hood, nor stir the grass from its droopy state. He moved slowly, his robe rasping softly against the ground as he walked, each step pressing into the grass with all the noise of a prowling cat.

He squatted at the plot of newly turned earth, staff in hand. For a long moment he failed to move, a sinister tableau above the chosen grave. Puffs of wispy breath issued from beneath his cowl, rancid in the cool night air. An exploratory hand ventured forth, scooping up a handful of soil, crushing it between fingers, allowing it to dribble back to the earth in a small mound. Dirty fingers disappeared beneath the shadow of his hood and were subjected to closer examination as he sniffed at the soil. 

Apparently satisfied with the results, he rose, brushing his hand off on his robes. He took his staff in both hands once more and raised it, swinging it down to plunge one end into the exposed dirt. He worked with a solemn determination as he manipulated his staff, carving a strange, twisted shape into the yielding earth.

In one smooth movement, he lifted his staff and brought it down again near the base of the symbol he'd completed, sticking it firmly into the earth. The runic images along the wood seemed to shimmer, as though in anticipation of the coming ritual.

The shadow cast by his hood in the moonlight obscured all but his mouth and chin; his tongue flicked out to moisten his cracked lips.

His voice rose in song, striking notes with the precision of one who has spent their life learning such a melody. The words were harsh, and not of the common tongue, with a sinister sound that only hinted at their dark purpose. Tendrils of acrid smoke rose from the carved design as the lines began to glow a baleful red, the colour flaring ever brighter as he continued his melodious incantation. As he hit the final notes, the scrawled emblem flashed once, brightly, and faded, leaving only the smouldering afterimage in the dirt. 

Still holding onto his staff with one hand, he knelt, near straddling the soil disturbed by his sigil. His right hand was held aloft, index and middle fingers extended. The movement was swift as he brought his arm down in the very centre of the drawing, driving his hand and arm impossibly deep into the dirt. He was jerked forward, stopped from pitching into the ground only by the grip he maintained on his staff.

His knees sank deeper into the soft ground as he struggled to sit up, groaning with the effort of drawing his arm free once more. Even as he heaved, something endeavoured to haul him down. The force pulling him was strong, but his determination was stronger.

Damp earth streaked the sleeve of his robe as he tugged his arm from the hole he'd created. Pale fingers clutched at his forearm, dug into the fabric of his robes, dragged him down, even as he gripped the wrist to help pull it from its earthen prison. The moonlight fell across the hand clinging to him, glowing off the pallid skin.

The grip on his arm broke. He fell backwards at the sudden loss of his counterweight. By the time he'd righted himself, the emerging revenant had continued to surface under its own power. 

Clawed fingers scraped through the dirt, leaving long furrows in their wake. The soil churned and nothing could disguise the sound of digging rising through the rapidly shifting layer of earth. A second hand erupted from the ground after the first, its nails torn and dirty from its upwards climb. 

An inhuman wail signified the emergence of the creature's head. Deep within its cadaverous chest, a mockery of life had stirred. Stiff lungs pushed stale air through the windpipe, bringing it groaning out between those pale lips.  In life, the girl must have been beautiful; the same could not be said of what she had since become. Long hair was tangled and matted with clumps of dirt; a face that would have once been bright and full of life was now gaunt and sunken. 

He had to have made some sort of sound, even if he had been unaware of doing so. The creature's head snapped around to regard him. His breath caught. 

Eyeless sockets stared at him. Fine, dark lines webbed from their corners and snaked down the creature's cheeks; the mark of the Raised. The moan came again, more urgent, angrier. It had recognized him as its necromancer. The revenant struggled to extricate itself from the remains of the grave, thrashing about as it crawled across the ground, prowling towards the one who had called it back.

With a cry of alarm he scrambled backward, distancing himself from the creature. He threw out a hand and spoke words of power, the magic blistering against his lips and face. The revenant halted, frozen by the spell. He fumbled for the tome at his waist, flicking through the pages with shaking hands until he found the correct incantation. The written runes shimmered on the page, legible even in the moonlight. The words seared his throat as he spoke them, scorching as he called on their power to contain his creation.

Tension vanished from the creature as it fell prey to the spell, sagging, pliant to his will.

He squatted and caught his revenant's chin in one hand, leaning in close enough to smell the lingering scent of death. "You," he hissed, "are _mine_."  



End file.
